Silent
by Lunarion Silver
Summary: M!Hawke/Carver - Slash, Incest - "Hawke belongs to his brother, and Carver wouldn't have it any other way." - Short, smutty fic regarding the Brothers Hawke, and Carver's means of putting Hawke in his place.


**Title**: Silent

**Fandom**: Dragon Age II

**Pairing**: Hawke/Carver (M/M)

**Warnings**:NSFW, BROTHERLY INCEST, ROUGH!SEX, Dom!Carver

**Disclaimer**: Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. I'm only an obsessive fan.

**A/N**: I apologise for any typos or nonsensical ramblings, they're probably all my fault. Much thanks to my lovely beta,

This is just a quick... quickie. Full on PWP drabble. Epic! This is what happens when I'm sleep deprived and attempt to write something. Sorry. The ending is weird, I might fix it later. I don't know.

I- ~ ~ ~ -I

Hawke tastes dirt in his mouth; gritty sand caught between teeth as they're ground together, cheek pressed against slick, grime covered stone. His eyes seem tight - unnaturally heavy - unable to open as bitter, pain-induced tears stain the contours of his face as they streak down gaunt cheeks; ever silent as they fall. There's a hiss of breath, surely from him, and a near-scalding length is pressed against the exposed crook of his rear.

It slides against soft skin, translucent precum catching in fine hair, and without warning he finds thick, needy fingers forcing their way into his throat, saliva the only planned means of easing the passage. Hawke supposes he should be grateful for that, at least, lest he find himself sprawled and motionless – nigh unconscious – in yet another Lowtown alley.

He groans when a large hand encircles his cock, fingers worn rough from years of labour pulling at sensitive skin with quick, terse motions. Jerks and tugs, and there's more pain than pleasure, yet somehow the electric shocks coursing through his veins can only command more blood to a now leaking head, breath heavy as it catches in his throat with each strangled mewl that escapes its confines.

Teeth on his neck now, scratching against skin in an almost feral manner before there's a voice echoing against his ears, fingers forced ever deeper into a willing, pliant throat.

"This what you like?" It asks, an almost mocking lilt to the words, and Hawke can only whimper in response as the fingers in his mouth retreat with a sudden, almost sickening urgency.

Then there's a pressure against his rear, a spit-covered digit honing in on tight muscle; the slightest of touches and flesh quivers in response, tension thick, near smothering. An undignified grunt follows, tearing its way from his throat, and Hawke knows that despite the friction and slight burn - the pain in his legs as he fights to stay upright – a single word could end it all and return a false sense of normalcy to the world. But Hawke, for all his pride and silver-lined half-truths, knows that such a word would never pour from his lips.

As does Carver.

It's quick and dirty, and far from painless, but even with the rush of blood thrumming in his ears and the fire threatening to erupt from beneath his skin, Hawke still finds pleasure in his brother's touch, hurtful as it is. And in the back of his mind he is only slightly aware, senses dulled – heavy as lead – that Carver still takes the needed time to stretch and pull, loosening taut muscle, almost tenderly, with what little has been provided.

Carver, for all his mockery and spiteful words, still loves his brother. Far more than any man should dare to comprehend, and only drives Hawke to that precipice of pain-lined-pleasure he_ knows_ Hawke can both endure, and craves with a voracious, never sated need.

Hawke salivates, cries out in a contorted mixture of agony and bliss as a firm, impossible width finally pushes into his depths. Vertigo overtakes him, legs failing as the world darkens behind still wide eyes and he falls, ever spiralling in euphoric acceptance as his brother shifts stance; now, it is only the weight of Carver at his back that keeps him steady, pressed against the wall as his brother's cock throbs inside him, slick channel unconsciously tightening as Carver sinks in just a little further with each heavy, straining breath.

Time ceases to tick as the entirety of the world narrows to that one, singular place where flesh meets flesh in the most intimate of manners, and nothing aside from his brother matters any longer.

Hawke cannot find the blinding white-ecstacy of release until Carver marks him, this is a truth held for many years. And so he does, like many times before, the moment before orgasm takes him; the younger Hawke finds the near-expended force of will to pull out, cock twitching in anticipation before one jerk, then two, and Carver's head is thrown back, joints audibly rebelling as Hawke's name spills from his lips between filthy curses and indescribable endearments. His cock jumps, short, sticky spurts splashing against Hawke's bare, arched back, and Hawke can only cry, eyes seemingly sewn shut, as release finally shakes the foundations of his core, rocking forward against the wall as he feels his brother's cum leave wet streaks along feverish flesh.

He finds himself alone when thought finally returns to a shattered mind, but he can't help but grin, almost manically, for he knows that just like every other occasion, Carver has not left before the final act has been completed. All evidence of their passion - Carver's seed - massaged into Hawke's aching flesh while still unconscious and prone, ever needy for his brother's all-knowing, comforting touch. Branding him.

After all, Hawke belongs to his brother, and Carver wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
